This Game We Play
by Aisukuri-Mu Studio
Summary: .:Collab:. Alfred F. Jones/America - Male - White - 5'9" - Appears 19. Suffers from split-personality disorder. Sometimes wakes up with claw marks lining his arms and torso. Note: Is something trying to get OUT of him? Will have to investigate.
1. Falling Apart

**Crystal's Notes: **Hello, thar! I'm alive! Not dead. Although it's been week since I've gotten back from vacation, there's been no updates, has there, except for _Sought After_, huh? D: I'm terribly sorry. But so that readers who have read my other works may know – both _Guide Me Ever Onward_ and _My Country Still_'s next chapters are well underway – in fact, almost done! Just hang in there. ;.;

Today, however, I bring you a story AnarchySoul and I are working on together (no matter what she says about it being primarily my work – having someone else's ideas coinciding with yours still counts as collaboration in my opinion). Do enjoy~! (heart heart)

**AnarchySoul's Notes: **Well shoot. Derp; I really can't say anything since Crystal did all of the work. I just spurred her on basically...and found suiting pictures and music xD that's all I have to say. Keep updated.

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><p><em>A man's illness is his private territory and, no matter how much he loves you and how close you are, you stay an outsider. You are healthy.<em>

- Lauren Bacall

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><p>Footsteps clacked hard against the tile flooring. Almost as hard as his heart beat inside his chest – although he would never admit such a thing. Pride prevented him from doing that kind of a trivial, yet influential act. He swallowed silently, shoving down the raging anxiety within him, trying to still the bucking horse inside his ribcage. But that wasn't working; not that it ever did.<p>

"Are you sure you want to see him?"

A voice beside him, echoing his own thoughts. The United Kingdom looked to his right, green eyes locking upon the taller doctor who had travelled with him thus far into the labyrinth of an asylum. He was a kind man, strong, muscular, with a well-defined chin. Honestly, the chap looked more fit to be in front of a television camera about some hospital drama instead of actually working in such an atmosphere, but there he was. And in all honesty, a faint thought crossed through the island nation's mind that the more people they had _doing_ the actual job instead of acting it out for entertainment, the better off their world was.

But that was besides the point. There was a…friend to see here (if he dared call him that; but he supposed here in the recesses of his mind, he was safe from any sort of jokes given on his behalf at that sort of comment). _So focus, Arthur,_ he thought to himself, rolling his shoulders slightly, testing his back. _He doesn't need someone else teetering on the edge of insanity. He needs someone stable._

Yes. Stable. And stable he would be – if only he could get this nervous, twisting feeling out of his gut.

Honestly, the nation could face an entire Spanish Armada and singularly fend off German troops from his shores, but when it came to seeing a friend on the verge of a mental breakdown…

…well, even he had to admit, that sounded…scary.

But the United Kingdom was not one to back down. He nodded, jaw set, green eyes filled with determination. "Yes." A small pause – his doctor companion did not look entirely sure, brown eyes clouded with doubt. The sandy-blonde cleared his throat. "I want to see him." Words laced with firm conviction, determination, uttered as confidently as he could give them.

The man finally, if uncertainly, nodded. With a brief few steps forward, they finally reached his cell, where Arthur watched as the doctor placed his hand on a scanner beside the door and was given admittance into the room. The click of the door unlocking seemed to reverberate both down the pristine metal hallway, and inside Great Britain's mind. The doctor glanced at him, hand on the doorknob. "Ready?"

There it was, the question of the hour. Despite feeling anxious, the blonde couldn't resist rolling his eyes in his typical satirical manner. "I was ready the moment I said I wanted to see him. Let's get on with this, already."

The man laughed nervously at his own precaution, before slowly opening the door, and entering the padded room with the short nation following in behind him. There was a _click_ again as the door went shut, but hopefully not – at least, Arthur hoped it wasn't – locked. Then, their entire attention went to the only other person in the room – a young man sitting on his bed, elbows on his knees, hands folded, blue eyes trained on the floor without his glasses.

It was eerily silent for a long, terse moment.

Then, the doctor cleared his throat. "Alfred," he began. "You have a visi – "

" – Alfred."

The United Kingdom watched the young man carefully as he said his name. He knew there should be no pretensions; there was a gut feeling that they should cut to the chase. So cut to the chase he did.

"Alfred," he said again, taking a step forward so the doctor was no longer in between them. He saw the boy – no, _man_, he reminded himself; he had made it a goal to try and recognize the world superpower for what he was, and not what he had been, and he wasn't going to give up now, just because of some mental instability – straighten slightly. Stiffen, his muscles become tense with recognition. There was a soft gasp, barely audible.

He saw the other blonde's Adam's apple bob with a swallow, before he hesitantly moved his head, looking up, blue eyes travelling to the Briton's face, squinting with the effort it took him to try and see him. The shorter nation was about to turn around and demand that the American have his glasses back when the younger finally spoke. "A…Arthur…?"

And there, there it was. The sign – the clue – the key he had been waiting for. This was not Alfred.

Alfred never called him just simply 'Arthur.'

_Unsafe. I'm unsafe here._

But for the sake of his friend, the United Kingdom wished upon himself tranquility, serenity. Letting his shoulders relax, even though his back was straightened to an alarmingly stiff degree. "Hello, Confederate."

Slightly – just slightly – he put his leg just a little further to his left, as if in a silent attempt at shielding the poor doctor witnessing this. Of course, the lad knew who and what they were – he had to, being the main caretaker of the United States of America _and _the Confederate States of America, it was part of the job description. But still. Nations were much different than humans, and taking care of a mentally unstable one was much more so.

He was brave for entering this line of work – Arthur Kirkland would give him that much.

The Other Alfred slowly stood, a mystified, yet somehow glad expression on his face. "Arthur…" His voice came out in a drawl, almost slurred. He hadn't been in control of a body for so long, it was apparent. "…it's been a long time, my friend."

_Too short,_ _I think. _But the United Kingdom bit his tongue, green eyes trained on the other, taller nation. His hands remained in the pockets of his jacket, as they had been the entire time he had been there in the psychiatric ward. "It has," he muttered finally after a small pause. He allowed his green eyes to do a quick scan over his ally's form. "You've changed, I see."

"Yeah, I have." The wheat-blonde spoke the words easily, breezily. Dismissively. "But change isn't such a bad thing, y'know?" Blue eyes fixed on him again, trying to focus on him. "You've changed, too."

Arthur allowed himself to scoff slightly. "You can't say that when you can't see me – "

" – yes I can. You don't talk the same."

The hairs on the back of Britain's throat raised just slightly with that comment. The corner of his mouth quirked upward, more so in an attempt to keep the atmosphere light and unpressured, in a situation where he was in control of the conversation, instead of it being heavy and threatening. "You know me that well, hm?"

"I should. Considering we had a deal." The more he talked, the more that Southern accent slipped through. The more the Other Alfred came in control. It worried Arthur – not that he would say it. "But you didn't exactly carry through with that…did you?"

No. He didn't. It had been close – the United Kingdom had almost, almost helped the Confederacy in that tragic four-year war. But then along came the Emancipation Proclamation, and with it, the transformation of the war to a moral war. One that Great Britain, admittedly, did not want to get caught up in – no matter how much part of him still wanted to see America come crawling back to him, unable to hold a stable, united government like he so proudly proclaimed he would.

Arthur straightened again, willing himself not to be alarmed. After all, a traitor was never easily forgiven. Opening his mouth to respond, he found himself surprised when he was suddenly cut-off with a friendly smile, and a, "But don't worry about that. It's been what, nearly two hundred years?" The Other Alfred shrugged carelessly again, breezily. Dismissively. "I'm not the type to hold grudges like that. Think of it like it never happened."

The island nation slowly closed his mouth, warily watching the young man still standing at his bedside. Could he be blamed for not completely believing the Confederate? He hoped not, for that's what he found himself doing. He nodded just slightly, briefly, curtly. "Right. Of course."

Silence. A tense, dislikeable silence. The kind that oft promises disaster.

Finally, it was broken by Arthur clearing his throat as he took a guarded step back. He kept his wary green eyes trained on the Other Alfred, cautious, even as he spoke. "I think it is time I take my leave. It was…a pleasure to see you again, Confederate."

"Call me by my name."

The sudden order caused both of the others in the room – doctor and visitor alike – to straighten in shock. Then the United Kingdom blinked once and frowned softly at the other blonde, not quite understanding. But he didn't need to voice the question; the Confederacy knew of his confusion. Somehow. "My name," he repeated, taking a casual step forward. "I don't like you simply calling me 'Confederate.' Don't we know each other better than that?"

Arthur cleared his throat. "It is as you said," he replied calmly, hoping the other couldn't hear his rapidly beating, nervous heart – although to be afraid of him _hearing _such a thing from such a distance in between them was really quite foolish, the United Kingdom told himself. "It has been nearly two hundred years. And we have both inevitably changed over such a time."

"Hmmm…" the American hummed in thought, head tilted to the side softly. Wheat-colored hair brushed against his ear and forehead – and in all honesty, he really would have looked quite innocent with such a picture, if it wasn't for the startlingly active blue eyes, saying two things at once. _Friend – traitor – brother – tyrant – I hate you – I love you. _"…then I guess that means I'll have to get to know you all over again." A smile graced those unfriendly lips, curling them upwards at the sides. "What a challenge."

The United Kingdom wanted out. Now. "Yes. Quite." _One you won't win. _"But as I said, I really must get going. So I will see you later – "

" – _Alfred._"

A baited breath; silence drifted between them, a tense and fragile wall of glass. But then a reluctant sigh eventually broke it, accompanied by a quiet yet firm, "No," uttered by pale lips. Green eyes raised to meet startled, off-guard blue. Then the green rose in intensity. "You're not Alfred."

It was as simple as that.

He turned around, not even raising a hand in farewell. "But do make sure to tell my_ real_ son that I wish to see him soon. That is all; good day," he said, and left. Briefly, quickly – with the good doctor in tow.

And it all began to fall apart.

Just.

Like.

That.


	2. Change in the Rules

**Crystal's Notes: **Heeeere's chapter 2! xD I've found it's a whole lot easier to update when I have shorter chapters…ha, wonder why _that_ is? xD (Both MCS and GMEO have around 10 pages per chapter; this one has about half of that). But alas. xD

AnarchySoul is not with us today, because she's on vacation all week. xD Lucky duck. But I got her permission to go ahead and post this chapter, so here it is. xD

In other matters, thank you to our three reviewers, an anonymous person, Anumi, and LoveGaara06 (which, you have a similar story? 8D Man, I'm going to have to check it out!). Your words and encouragement are part of what's keeping this story going. X3 You have our deepest thanks. (heart heart)

Also, to answer your question, Anumi, we haven't any solid pairings yet. xD I'll have to discuss that with AnarchySoul. But of course, there will be a bit of FACE family – just a bit. xD But that doesn't mean there will be FrUK...it's all tentative. xD We'll have to see.

Thanks so much for reading, and here is your next chapter!

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><p><em>Close every door to me<br>__Hide all the world from me  
><em>_Bar all the windows and shut out the light  
><em>_Do what you want with me  
><em>_Hate me and laugh at me  
><em>_Darken my daytime and torture my night_

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><p>"...how is he?"<p>

It was the question the Canadian had feared all morning, purple eyes continuously glancing away from his paperwork and to the black phone resting on the corner of his desk. He always had to stop, to tell himself that Arthur would call whenever he was done visiting Alfred, and for sure, he was the first person he would notify about their favorite American's condition - he had the Englishman's word for that.

But that hadn't made the waiting period any easier to withstand.

Still, as he swallowed, Matthew Williams found himself clenching the phone a little too tightly as he waited for his former step-father figure's answer. _He's taking too long, _was his first thought, laced with panic and fear. _Something must be terribly wrong with him, eh – _

" – it...wasn't him I spoke with, Matthew."

Oh. So it had been the Other...the Other Alfred...in control today...

The blonde Canadian swallowed again, purple eyes glancing away at the opposite wall, although not truly fixed on any point. "Well, still, eh! How did he look? Were there any new scars? He's not in pain, is he...?"

There was a soft, tired sigh from the other end. "Not that I saw, although that isn't saying much. He was covered in those grey pajamas they call psychiatric garments. He looked fine as far as I could tell, although they don't let him use his glasses – for safety purposes, I imagine, although I can't figure out how one could kill themselves with those..."

"Eh..." Canada offered weakly. "...ask Ivan. I bet there are ways."

The United Kingdom gave a soft chuckle in response. But after a moment of silence had passed, Matthew found himself speaking up again, if only to keep the conversation going so he could find out more about his brother's condition. "And...and what about the land itself? How...how is the drought over there?"

A heavy sigh. Instantly, Canada's heart plummeted at the sound of it, fearing the worst. The other blonde's words didn't help the situation either. "It's bad, Matthew. The people are starving, it's dry and humid to the point of getting frustrated every five seconds. There's rumors of a rebellion beginning to stir in the South again." A small pause, and then a whisper of confidentiality. "My theory is that's what's strengthening him."

Him – not Alfred. Not their dear, dear Alfred, but the Other one. The one trying to escape. The one becoming a disease.

Canada closed his violet eyes briefly, as if wincing – but not that the nation on the other end of the line could see. "Is there still nothing we can do…?"

They had tried. Oh, how hard they tried to convince the current President to let them help. And although, yes, the rest of the world was suffering economically from the struggles of the United States of America and the drought and famine that plagued it – and even though Canada himself was struggling with the same problem although on a much, much lighter scale – they were still dying to pitch in. The United Nations had been knocking on the door to the White House for such permission to lend a hand, sometimes banging on it when the need was growing more desperate, but still no grace had been given.

"The United States," the President had said, "is not a third-world country needing aid. We are much more than capable of providing for ourselves, and although we thank the United Nations for their offers, from this day forth, we politely decline any attempts at help. We aren't dying."

It was the stupidest, most arrogant move a political leader could make. Not only had it left many sour impressions onto the other nations who had been, shockingly enough for some of them, willing to lend a hand, it had hurt the Americans themselves, who had been looking forward to the promising aid the United Nations always pledged to give – no matter what 'good ol' American pride' said, according to Mr. President.

Arthur sighed. "I'm afraid, Matthew, that today both the Senate and the House of Representatives has somehow voted to back the President's case. They are blockading their own shores."

"W-what about my borders…?"

"Matthew."

It had been a vain question, and the Canadian knew it. Wincing again, the young man leaned over his deskwork, elbows propping themselves up on its maple-wood surface, even as he kept the phone close to his ear. "Y-yeah…I guess…if they're cutting off the rest of the world 'across the pond'…then they would also shut themselves away from even their neighbors, eh…"

"Unfortunately, Americans are thorough about this kind of thing." The United Kingdom sighed heavily on the other end, his breath coming in fuzzy and blurred from the close proximity from which his mouth must have been to the phone. "They mean it when they declare something."

And no one would know better than him.

Matthew resisted the urge to pound his desk with a fisted hand, veins pumping full of righteous anger throughout his bloodstream. Instead, he resorted to gritting his teeth. But still, his voice came out as hardly more than a timid whisper, laced delicately with only a lilting rage. "Why, eh? _Why_ are they so willing to do this to themselves? To their people? To _Alfred_?" _To my brother?_

It took a moment for the United Kingdom to answer, and when he did, it was with surprising honesty. "I haven't the slightest, my boy. Pride, as we nations all know, can be a nasty enemy to overcome. But to hold on to it to such an extent that you are willing to let your people suffer..."

Matthew's eyes, during his former step-father figure's pause, drifted to the window. Looking out, he could see the bright, cloudless sky (a common sight during this season of drought), and the pale grass, shriveled and beginning to die from the lack of water. But it was nothing like what it was in his brother's country, where the land was slowly being turned into a desert; they had been suffering for years from this sudden lack of rain, and only now, once their food was slowly beginning to run out even after being placed on rations, they were feeling the consequences.

And then the drought had started spreading north.

The Canadian found himself speaking before he even knew what he was saying. "We're not gonna give up on him, eh, are we, Dad...?"

Dad. It had been a long time since he called the United Kingdom that; an even longer time to begin calling him that in the first place, especially after the Seven Year's War. But in this day and age, when things were looking bleak, he found it...okay, at least, to find himself reverting back to a childish sense of dependency, especially when looking for hope.

The other blonde answered calmly and confidently, no trace of doubt in his accented voice. "No, Matthew. We won't." A small pause, and then a slight chuckle, one that somehow warmed the Canadian's insides. "It will take a lot more than a simple blockade to stop us from trying to help family."

Family.

A smirk stretched onto Canada's face even as the island nation hurriedly added, "But don't tell Alfred I said that. I wouldn't hear the end of it for a century." Or perhaps longer, knowing the eccentric young man.

But Matthew Williams only smiled, leaning back in his chair casually. "Oh, don't worry, eh. I won't tell him..."

_...yet._

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><p><em>Just give me a number<br>Instead of my name  
>Forget all about me<br>And let me decay_

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><p>Sleep was the only time they were equals. When they could both stand, could both talk, could both think, and neither had control of the body. When they were safe to discuss, to fight, or to simply bicker. When they could see each other, look at one another and see a mirror, yet know they were entirely different.<p>

And it was the only time when the outside world was safe from them.

But this time, the Other was not happy. It would not be a restful sleep this night, Alfred knew, when his counterpart stomped up to him, grabbed the front of his shirt (in Dreamland, both of them wore the same grey-colored garb that they wore in real life) and hoisted him up to eye-level, bare blue eyes glaring into his own fiercely.

And he knew why. The tough part was keeping himself from smiling even as the Other shouted into his face, "_Why_? _Why_ can't I ever win, even when _I'm_ in control? Even when you do _nothing_?"

The Real laughed, not at all daunted by the anger coursing through his Other's eyes. He had seen, been forced to watch everything helplessly, as the conversation with his former father figure had commenced. But he certainly had been surprisingly happy with the results. "Because I'm the winner, and you're the loser. Face it; it's always gonna be that way."

"_Lies_!"

Thrown to the side, Alfred braced himself for the pain he knew was coming. And sure enough, as soon as he rolled over, the Confederate was there, grabbing the front of his shirt again and lifting his upper torso up while his other fist was raised, ready for a strike. But then, suddenly – and without warning – the Other paused. Something strange passed through his eyes, and for a pure minute, he froze, not moving an entire muscle, as he worked out whatever it was he was thinking.

But this...confused the Real. It had never happened before.

Still, he couldn't pass up the opportunity to annoy his Other. With the corner of his mouth twitching upward into a grin, he sneered, "What, finally get a conscience?"

Blue eyes snapped to his identical ones, fire burning behind them. But instead of resuming the usual routine of beating his counterpart senseless, slowly, a smirk began to spread onto the Confederate's features – a very pleased, a very...satisfied smile that unnerved Alfred more than he would care to admit – and with surprising care, he lowered the Real back down to the floor, hand still fisted, but returning to his side as he leaned over the young man. Not answering the question, he decided to ask one of his own. "How long have we been playing this game, Union?"

Alfred frowned carefully. "I've never really considered it a game."

"Ah, but you have." There was something strange in the Other's voice as he spoke. A purr that was certainly never there before – except for when he was certainly confident about something. "After all, you keep referring to us as 'winners' and 'losers,' don't you?"

"Eh, that's an old habit." A dismissive comment, accompanied by a roll of bright blue eyes. "I've always done that. Doesn't mean – "

" – all the same." The grin never left that face hovering above his own. "It's all the same, Union. But y'know, I've just realized something...something that I should have realized long, long ago, and started doing before I began to run myself in circles."

Confused, the Real moved to try and get out from under his Other, but a sudden hand on his shoulder, pressing him down, made him involuntarily freeze as the Confederate went on. "No matter how many times I cause you pain here, in our little world, your spirit is never broken. You're still smug, you're still strong, you're still..._you._"

That made Alfred grin, despite the fact he was being held immobile. "The _winner."_

A trace of a scowl flickered quickly across the Other's face, but he immediately grinned again, clearing his throat. "Yes...the 'winner,'" he spat. "But a sudden thought just occurred to me, and now...now I think it's time to change the rules, just a little bit, of this game we play."

"What do you mean?" The question was asked carefully, guardedly, accompanied by a heavy frown, caution lining every muscle in the Real's form.

"The only way to get to you, so I see now, Union, is through the outside world. So let's see how long you can last once your starving people begin to rebel, and _you're _stuck deep inside, not able to do anything. And when, most importantly, those closest to you are hurt and suffering...because of_ you_."

Blue eyes narrowed, confusion still found deep within the pools, but before Alfred could do or say anything, the hand that was fisted was suddenly brought to his chest, laid over his heart, as the index finger spontaneously began tapping an unknown rhythm. "Let's see how long you can last as I cause you all sorts of new pain, Union." The grin spread wider. "All sorts of new pain..."

The hand over his heart never left.

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><p><em>Close every door to me<br>Keep those I love from me_

- "Close Every Door" from _Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat_


	3. It Begins

**Crystal's Notes: **See? xD I told you this thing was far easier to update than the others...darn it. Maybe this means something...maybe I should make all my stories have a little more suspense to them...

...darn it.

In other news. xD Thank you dearly to our seven reviewers of last chapter! You guys are awesome. No, like really. You think this story is "epic"? _You guys_ are epic. x3 No contest.

And LoveGaara06! I _did_ browse your story! 8D And yeah, I _did_ find some similarities! But there are vast, vast differences as well. xD For instance...I doubt the asylum will let Alfred get his hands on any drugs or guns. xDD;; But! You have some clever ideas there and definitely know how to keep an audience's attention hooked. 83 Hats off to you, fellow author. Keep writing.

Without much further-a-do, enjoy this chapter after a word from our returned co-author, AnarchySoul! x3

**AnarchySoul's Notes: **Ehem, FFF- hallo. I'm back. I know you missed the non-existant me. Crystal wrote this lightning fast and she's totally epic. So love her, dote on her, and review. Because what's more exciting than receiving a review? Honestly... wew.

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><p><em>It was far in the sameness of the wood;<br>I was running with joy on the Demon's trail,  
>Though I knew what I hunted was no true god.<br>It was just as the light was beginning to fail  
>That I suddenly heard—all I needed to hear:<br>It has lasted me many and many a year._

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><p>Oddly enough, the United Kingdom had been in the shower when the idea had suddenly occurred to him, and without much more preamble, he found himself scrambling to hurry up the wash and get out to dry himself off in order to call a fellow nation to see if it would work.<p>

He was haphazardly dressed in khaki shorts and a white t-shirt with his unruly damp sandy blonde hair messier than usual when he finally walked out onto the veranda of his hotel room, cell phone ringing in his hand as he waited for the other to pick it up.

It only took a moment.

"Hello?"

The island nation leaned against the railing of the balcony as he responded, "_Gutentag,_ Ludwig. This is Arthur."

"Ah, Arthur." The other blonde sounded vaguely surprised; although he had reason to, for the two hardly talked. "This is…unexpected. Is something wrong?"

Pausing just a moment to think of how to answer that particular question, Great Britain ran a hand through his hair as he hesitated. "You could…say that, but you already know of the difficulty the United States is proving…" There was a breath of understanding – and agreement – following that statement, and encouraged, the sandy blonde continued. "…which, is actually part of the reason as to why I called."

Germany gave a soft hum on the other end. "All right…go on."

_Okay. You've got his ear now, chap. Don't lose it. _The Englishman found himself gripping the railing just a little bit tighter as he took the plunge. _"_I think I've finally thought of a way we could still help the Americans."

Now, Arthur knew that he would be met with reluctance and, more importantly, exasperation (because everyone was getting tired of the vain efforts they were taking to try and help the U.S.), but he still wasn't prepared for the way he found himself wincing when he heard the strong man's sigh on the other end of the line. "Arthur…"

The United Kingdom hurried on. "Now, now, listen to me. Give me a chance. After all, surely you still remember the Berlin Airlift, don't you?"

Oh, he had the German nation there, and he knew it. The Berlin Airlift, from June 24, 1948 to May 12, 1949. It had been nearly the same thing as the American government was doing to themselves today, except that then it had been the Soviet Union's blockade upon the Germans. But all the same, what was it that the States, Britain, and other allies done in response?

"…you want us to fly in supplies."

"Yes."

A careful silence, gauged only by the length of which it ran. The United Kingdom knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had about a fifty-fifty chance on this one; either Germany would find compassion in his heart to help out someone who had aided him years past, or the nation would think it didn't concern him to help out a country that was being annoyingly stubborn this time around. But all the same, the sandy-blonde kept his calm, biding his time in wait; centuries of living often stretched a person's patience to innumerable degrees.

Except, of course, when it came to a certain self-proclaimed country of love, but those were petty details the island nation assured himself.

At last, he finally got an answer. "All right," was the reluctant sigh of a response. Great Britain felt certainly great indeed – the relief that washed over him made the corner of his mouth quirk upward in a tiny grin. "You have my agreement. I will speak to my boss about this – and you, yours, I should hope."

"Yes, yes, of course." The Englishman nodded, excitement lining his figure as he turned around and walked inside his hotel room, his mind buzzing full of numbers to call, appointments to make, planes to reserve and finances to figure out. This would be quite a mission he knew, but it would certainly be a successful one was the assurance. _And _it would be much easier to perform than the Berlin Airlift, seeing as how they wouldn't have the danger of their planes being shot down…

…would they?

_No, the government isn't _that _idiotic. They're just irrefutably stubborn. _Yes, that was it. That was completely it.

And hopefully, the United Kingdom thought as he finished his conversation with Germany and ended the call, thumb poised to begin dialing another one straight to London, this would also weaken Other Alfred, appeasing the Americans and warding off another civil war. Three birds with one stone – or perhaps several stones, depending on how many trips it would take to continue feeding the starving population.

But it would be worth it, the island told himself. It would all most assuredly be worth it.

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><p><em>The sound was behind me instead of before,<br>A sleepy sound, but a mocking half,  
>As of one who utterly couldn't care.<br>The Demon arose from his wallow to laugh,  
>Brushing the dirt from his eye as he went;<br>And well I knew what the Demon meant._

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><p>It was without hesitation that Canada walked briskly down the metallic hallway, his shoes creating an echoing <em>clap, clap, clap <em>that shattered the silence, something unusual for someone so quiet as he. Yet he didn't let it bother him; no, the thing that really saddened him was the fact they took away his bear, Kumakichi (or was it Kumajiro?). He could bring nothing with him into the room, they told him. Although after much persistent (timid) argument, they allowed him to keep his glasses, but still. They provided little solace in place of his ever-present stuffed companion.

Nonetheless, before the northern nation found he was ready, the door to the padded room was opened, and he was gently ushered inside by the same kind doctor who had told him he met his stepfather/brother/whatever he was the other day.

"Alfred," the doctor began as soon as the door was shut. "You have a visitor."

Matthew Williams clutched the bottom of his red sweatshirt, wishing Kumajimi were there instead so he could squeeze the animal tight and wish everything better, but alas. The bear wasn't there. All he could do was stand and stare as his twin glanced up, unfocused blue eyes landing on him, and then slowly squinting in confusion. It was a moment before he spoke.

"...who are you?"

To any other person, it might have been insulting. Any normal visitor would have been worried at such a response. But not Canada. Instead, an overwhelming relief stole over him - something normal! Oh, how odd it was to be thankful about being so forgettable - and he couldn't help but find himself relaxing, an amused smile creeping across his face.

He chuckled a little, hands releasing the sweatshirt and coming up to wring themselves as he responded, "I'm Canada. Your twin. Matthew Williams...remember?"

Recognition lit up the other's face, and instantly the young man shot to his feet, joy and relief lining his body as he spread his arms. "Mattie!" he exclaimed, thrilled. The ever-buoyant smile nearly split his face. "Mattie, you came! You got my message!"

The blonde nodded, smiling back, excited as well. The memory was still fresh in his mind, the phone call he had received after the United Kingdom's. It had been short and courteous; a nurse had told him everything he needed to know: that his brother, the United States, was asking for him, requesting to see him. And of course, he couldn't refuse. "I did! I...I can't believe you asked for _me_, but you did, and..." he shrugged, at a loss for other words, hands falling to his sides limply. He wasn't quite sure what to do with them at a time like this. "...and here I am, I guess."

Oh, how relieved Alfred looked – how thrilled! His fingers danced with anticipation, and suddenly caught with self-awareness, he glanced to the doctor standing by, blue eyes clouded with caution. "Can I...can I hug him...?"

There was a careful silence, one in which the blue eyes of the doctor roamed over his patient in calculation, before he then glanced to the visitor. "Are you okay with that, sir?"

Canada nodded hurriedly. "O-oh yes, I...I think he's okay for now."

A brief, perhaps slightly hesitant, nod. The doctor also scribbled something onto his clipboard he held close to his chest, a guarded look in his eye. "All right. You have that permission, Alfred. But that permission alone. Do you understand?"

Alfred hurriedly nodded, comically an identical gesture of confirmation as the younger twin had given him earlier. But then, without much further-a-do, he darted forward, slim arms (Matthew couldn't remember them always being that alarmingly thin; once upon a time, wasn't his brother so much stronger?) wrapping around the other blonde and holding him tight.

_Almost like a lifeline,_ Matthew thought sadly. He hugged his brother back, burrowing his face in his twin's shoulder. _Oh, Alfred...what's happening to you...?_

But no one saw the slow smile that spread on the States' face as he raised his head just the slightest off of his younger twin's shoulder; it was a smile that most assuredly, most certainly, did _not_ belong to Alfred, the Alfred they knew.

No one noticed until it was far.

Far.

Too.

Late.

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><p><em>I shall not forget how his laugh rang out.<br>I felt as a fool to have been so caught..._

- "The Demiurge's Laugh" by Robert Frost


	4. First Move

**Crystal's Notes: **Woot! xD So this one took a bit longer to crank out…as is MCS, I realize. D8 But it's school, I tell you! Which, a lot of you probably understand and can relate to. xD Although the homework load isn't so bad, there's a lot more responsibilities I have this year, so…

Yeah. xD Idly commentating.

Please enjoy! And thanks so much to misaejunki (sorry to make you cry, my dear xD but we're so, SO glad you're enjoying it and reading it), Mossmoon (lol sorry this wasn't updated sooner! xD But thank you), IchigoMelon (I'm very, very glad you're enjoying it : ) ), and envysfangirl (you shall see xD) for reviewing last chapter!

Reviews are love, and they make me and AnarchySoul a very happy pair. xD So if you can find to do so from the mercy of your heart…I give you cyber Rice-Krispie treats. 8D In abundance.

Enjoy!

**AnarchySoul's Notes: **Ahem; this chapter est awesome and Crystal did an amazing job writing it! We ran into some small trouble but those were quickly solved by some creative brainstorming. This chapter sounds really awesome when read aloud too so I suggest you try it, even if you feel rather silly. Review; it makes us want to give you a happier ending. /shot;

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><p><em>Do we exert our own liberties without injury to others - we exert them justly; do we exert them at the expense of others - unjustly. And, in thus doing, we step from the sure platform of liberty upon the uncertain threshold of tyranny. <em>

- Frances Wright

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><p>Everything seemed to be slowed down to a tenth of the speed that it normally ran.<p>

The doors burst open—not fast enough—shoes running upon tile flooring straight up to the front desk—yet not quickly enough. The young woman there glanced up in surprise, her brown eyes widening until she heard the man's demand, even as he gripped the edge of the desk with surprising force, so strongly his knuckles turned white.

"Where is he? Matthew Williams – I need to see him. I need to see him _now_."

"_Like father like son, huh? You ever think about that?"_

She gave him a room number, and was barely able to point down a hallway before he was off, dashing around other nurses and patients in beds being wheeled along – "Hey, slow down!" – "What do you think you're doing?" – "Come back here, sir!" – but he couldn't stop. Not until he reached him – his boy – his poor Matthew – and saw what became of him. That was most important.

And the only thing that ran through his mind was, _He should never have gone alone._

"_Think about it. 'United Kingdom.' 'United States.' You two have a lot of similarities. Despite your claim of being independent, you took a lot after him once you were free."_

"_S-shut up."_

It wasn't hard to find. Room 208B. Without hesitation, the United Kingdom stepped inside, heart beating wildly, chest panting_._ He wasn't prepared for what he saw – but there, there the young man was, anyway. Starkly pale against the white bed sheets, oxygen mask bound to his face, heart monitor beeping at a reassuring pace – and oh, good. Good! His heart was still beating. That meant the recovery process could go faster with his heart still intact.

And most importantly, the Canadians wouldn't suffer so badly.

"_And even when I tried to secede from you…what did you do?"_

"_I said shut up."_

"_You did exactly what he did, didn't you? Tried to force me back, doing the one act that you hated most of what he had done."_

"_Shut. Up!"_

But slowly, oh so slowly he found himself approaching the bedside, every move cautious, every move careful, as if one single step too loud would wake up the young man up and disturb his body from trying to heal itself. And with every bit closer that he moved towards his step-son, the more and more his heart broke.

"Oh, Matthew…" murmured pale lips, a hand reaching out to gently brush against the pale, bruised cheek. At that moment, the Canadian seemed so fragile, like cracking china. He was almost afraid to touch him. "…how did this happen…?"

Of course there was no answer. There couldn't be at the moment, but it wasn't like that made it any harder to figure out. Only the reassuring, slow, _beep-beep-beep_ of the heart monitor gave any indicator that he was alive, and that he was breathing. The silence, however saddening as it was, gave all the answers the United Kingdom needed.

It hadn't been Alfred that Matthew had visited, either.

"_But now look what you have done. You've also hurt your own _twin._"_

"_I am not an idiot, Confederate, no matter what other countries or even you may think of me. I had no hand in hurting Mattie — _you _had been in control for that."_

"_But you did nothing to stop me, did you?"_

"_I-I couldn't."_

The list of injuries the northern country had sustained were numerous, paining – but more importantly, mystifying. Puzzling, for the majority of them seemed to be originating from nails, or claws – none of which, Arthur was sure, that the States had on his being while locked there in the asylum. Plus, didn't Alfred wake up every morning with claw marks on his own body as well?

Was it the Confederate…? And if so…_how_…?

"_Do mine ears deceive me? The great, all-powerful, strongest country in the world, admits he could not stop me from hurting his brother?"_

"_It's not…it wasn't like that."_

"_Ah…so then, tell me, what _was_ it like, standing back, letting me hurt him? Watching his blood be spilled by your own hands?"_

But this wasn't the time for questions. Slowly pulling up a chair to sit in, the elder nation let himself rest for a moment as he sat down. It was hard to keep focused, he realized. Hard to stay concentrated on the new air lift plans and how to help Alfred, now that he realized the danger behind every move. Now that the Confederate was getting restless.

And now that Matthew was injured.

Leaning forward and propping his elbows up on his knees, Great Britain sighed to himself as he placed his forehead in his hands. He, too, he realized, was feeling restless—but it was a different kind of restless than what the Other America was feeling.

"_It felt like dying."_

Painfully and slowly.

* * *

><p><em>Helplessness induces hopelessness, and history attests that loss of hope and not loss of lives is what decides the issue of war. <em>

- B. H. Liddell Hart

* * *

><p>"He may not wake up for a while."<p>

The sudden comment broke the United Kingdom out of the train of thought he had been in. Sitting upright quickly and leading his idle hands to clasp his knees, he observed the nurse who had entered, clipboard in arm and pen in her other hand. She had hazel eyes that observed him carefully and curiously—she must not have known who or what he was, including her patient—but also a mouth drawn into a thin line. The air of knowing better than to ask personal inquiries.

Nodding briefly, the island nation turned his green eyes back to the motionless young man dressed in white, not answering immediately. But when he finally murmured, "I figured," quietly, he found he had to clear his throat right afterwards, seeing as how it was hoarse from lack of use. But then, how long had he simply been sitting there, thinking?

The nurse, on the other hand, seemed shocked at his accent. Her stiff, professional demeanor slipped for a moment, curiosity getting the better of her. "You came all this way to see him?"

The naïve comment made the country chuckle, and he leaned back in his chair. "Actually, I was already in town." The nurse, getting that look on her face of 'Oh, of course—I should have realized that,' quickly nodded. After a thought, however, Arthur found himself adding, "But even if I wasn't, I still would have come."

Silence settled in the air. It was evident, even without watching the curly-brown-haired woman, that she was itching and antsy, dying to know more—naturally the nosy type—but not so that she could gossip. No, the United Kingdom had been around humans long enough to know there was a difference; this one simply wanted to ask because she wanted to know. Perhaps, also, to share whatever burden it was that he held at the moment—but that was if there was one.

He decided to relieve her of such troublesome thoughts. "He's kind of like my younger brother. I partly raised him. Him and his…"

...well, he didn't expect how hard it would be to talk about America anymore; at least, not to a stranger.

But the woman, probably not being able to help herself, once more let her curiosity take over. "Him and his…brother?"

Arthur cleared his throat and shifted in his seat slightly, nodding briefly once more. "Twin, actually."

Another pregnant pause. The silent questions ran amuck, bouncing off the pristine white walls, begging to be answered; although Great Britain was no telepath, this woman was so strangely easy to read behind her professional charade, that he could almost tell automatically what it was she wanted to know. So with a sigh, he answered quietly, "He's in the mental ward."

Whatever information the nurse knew must have fallen into place suddenly with that statement. She paled slightly, and at the same time seemed so sad. "He's the one who did this to him." It wasn't a question, yet it demanded confirmation.

It got one.

"Yes."

The blonde nation could feel the hazel eyes on him regarding his face, his body posture, and his eyes as he continued watching his resting step-son. It made him feel unnervingly scrutinized; as if she were trying to read him and figure out what else he wasn't telling her.

"But there's something more bothering you."

And well…to give her credit, she did pretty well at least catching on to that fact.

Turning his eyes to her almost in a languid manner, the United Kingdom let a bitter smirk stretch on his face. Why lie? "Yes."

Now she sat, choosing another chair that was closer to the door, lowering herself slowly and keeping their eyes connected as she did so. She placed her clipboard quietly on her lap, as if afraid to break whatever unusual, gentle trance that had enveloped them both—two strangers who before this day had never met. "Tell me."

The United Kingdom took a careful breath, not letting go of her hazel eyes. "I can't."

There, that did it. Those two words with so much power hidden in them; suddenly the nurse blinked, aware she had tread into ground that wasn't hers. She stood up quickly, clipboard wrapped back up in her arm again as she spoke. "Oh! Yes—of course. Of course, I understand."

But oh, how she wanted to know. It was burning throughout her flesh, and even without her voicing them, Arthur knew her thoughts, knew that she wondered anyway.

So it was that as she turned to leave that he decided to once again, do her a mercy.

"I should be doing more."

At first, she was confused. It was evident in the way she turned around, eyebrows furrowed, hazel eyes once again scanning him for clarification. But then the haze in her mind passed and the pieces clicked together once more.

Her answer was the immediate and obvious. "You're not guilty for this."

"I know."

His mind knew. His heart didn't.

Oh, if only he had stayed longer the first day he saw Alfred—maybe he could have done something to insure that the United States was in control before he left. Perhaps he could have encouraged the boy. Maybe he could have done so much more if he didn't turn around just simply turn around and leave; but ah, what about the next day, too? All those idle plans and phone conferences did nothing more than discuss and argue about what was the best way to go about the airlift—and even if they _could _do it, what with the heavy debts which hadn't gotten better since the beginning of the 21st century.

But what about _now_? What about the time in between? What about once he was done with his daily duties and work that he had to do for his own country?

Couldn't he be doing more? So much more?

The tapping of a pen against a clipboard was what drew his attention back to the nurse as she thought, considering what to say. But it wasn't until after a long moment that she finally asked it. "You think…he feels alone?"

Great Britain knew which brother she was talking about, but the question stirred something in him; it woke up a dormant thought that hadn't occurred to him yet.

The nurse went on, her hazel eyes gazing once more at the Briton. "Because if I were somewhere unfamiliar, without the people I grew up with, without anything I knew…I think I'd be scared…right? I think I'd feel…" A careful pause. The eyes narrowed slightly just in focus of trying to find the right word. "…I think I'd feel lost."

_Lost. Helpless._

_Fighting a battle all alone._

Suddenly, it was clear.

The United Kingdom rose to his feet, green eyes filled with understanding. "Yes," he murmured. "Yes, I…I would be feeling the same way."

The smile on her face was the only confirmation he needed that he had received her suggestion correctly. Her eyes, however, shone with warning as he passed by her to walk out the door. "I trust you, y'know, because you raised him, but do be careful, sir. I do not want to see your body on a stretcher besides this one, and your chart on my clipboard, and my pen scribbling your stats."

"Don't worry," replied Great Britain with a hint of amusement. Calling over his shoulder as he walked down the hallway, he couldn't resist. "Even the Nazi's couldn't make me fall."

Ah; now _that _one should give her some questions to boil over.


	5. Fragile

**Crystal's Notes: **Okay…let's stick with the idea of updating both of my stories, MCS and TGWP and FMtY once a week…switching them off and on. xD Does that satisfy? Anybody who…reads all three…of them?

Also, much thanks to our one reviewer of last chapter, salenastarzz! You're a doll, me and AnarchySoul love you, and…you get treats. 8D Of your choice.

Enjoy!

Also, if you want to see a fail video of AnarchySoul, me, and our friend FireSukiKane narrating some scenes from this story, here is the URL link (once you take out the spaces): http: /www. youtube .com/ watch?v= AiEHwAJenek

Enjoy (again xD).

**AnarchySoul's Notes: **Things are getting suspensful, no? Haha this is probably a favorite chapter of mine, next to the last one because there's more Alfed in it ;DD /shot; I love him too much... Anyways, enjoy and drop a reivew! /frolics off;

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><p>…<em>kept them at home; and it does seem more human.<br>But it's not so: the place is the asylum.  
>There they have every means proper to do with,<br>And you aren't darkening other people's lives—  
>Worse than no good to them, and they no good<br>To you in your condition; you can't know  
>Affection or the want of it in that state.<em>

* * *

><p>Approaching the room that day was different than before, Arthur realized. Besides the fact, of course, that it was harder to convince the doctors and personnel that it was entirely safe for him to visit the certain young man, but those were still meaningless details when it all came down to it. Yes, Alfred had hurt someone—his own twin—yes, he had now been moved to a more secure room—no straight-jackets yet—and yes, he wasn't open to just any visitors because of that.<p>

But this was the _United Kingdom. _

And when he demanded to see his son, they could, in the end, only open the door for him and wish him the best of luck.

He didn't answer to that, of course. He wouldn't need it.

Seeing Alfred off to the side of his room, his back to the door, knees curled up to his chest and unmistakably tense, Arthur had a sudden assurance that finally—finally—this was his son. Not the Other.

He knew it the moment the young man turned to see who it was that had dared to visit him, shock and distress overcoming the shamed figure at the same time. There was no way those aching, regretful blue eyes could hold such strong, sincere emotion that they did at that moment if it wasn't honestly his America, the America he knew and the America he had raised.

Now, if only the relief of finally seeing each other again was mutual.

But it wasn't.

Instantly, the United States jumped to his feet, backing up. His eyes were shadowed with his unkept bangs dangling over them, looking every bit bedraggled as his counterpart had. But this was still Alfred; even what he muttered was further proof to that fact. "You shouldn't be here."

Arthur scoffed slightly, feeling the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. He took a step forward to replace the ground lost with his ex-colony's insistent step back, responding coolly, "I'm afraid I'm not taking orders at the moment."

"No, really." Alfred's voice bent to nearly a level of pleading. Blue eyes mourned, truly afraid. "Really. You shouldn't…you shouldn't have come. You need to go while you can. I'm serious."

The United Kingdom shrugged, now continuing to walk forward—encouraged by the fact that the other blonde was now at the wall and couldn't stretch their distance any longer. "I know. I know you are. But that doesn't change anything, Alfred. The point of this isn't to make you feel alone—because that is what he would want."

For a split-second, those blue eyes shifted—they were caught-off-guard—startled—but then they refocused again, and the head of wheat-blonde shook fervently. "I—it doesn't matter. Stop. _Stop_."

"No." The answer was quiet. Now that he was only a foot away, did the far older nation cease his walking, green eyes never having left his son's face. He held that uncertain azure gaze as affirmatively as he could, urging, through their connected eyes, that the other draw on his strength, his hope, his confidence. "You stop. Stop trying to push me away."

Blue eyes snapped shut, squinted tightly, the strain evident. He didn't respond for a long time, but that was okay. Great Britain could allow the silence, if only it meant he was truly considering his words.

And then, shockingly enough, the young man chuckled very quietly. Defeated—not in a manner that was worrying. No, for once it much seemed like the old Alfred—the United States of America—had returned to normal. It was somehow light-hearted. "How come I feel like I've told you that before…?"

A fond smirk stole across the smaller man's face.

"Because you have."

_The sky was burning, dark as ash. The sirens erupted all around, winding, loud, reverberating. He could feel the ground shake beneath his feet, tremble with the force of the bombs exploding—and with every blast his heart pained, felt like it had been torn apart like the bricks of innocent Londoner's homes._

_He tried to turn away as the first ones hit the ground, tried not to visibly stumble, but he still grasped vainly at the front of his coat as he gasped for air that wasn't coming into his lungs. A hand on his shoulder pulled him back, turned him around to face those azure blue eyes, so strong and so unyielding. Piercing. Strangely enough, making him feel guilty, even though he had been trying to be the brave one._

"_Stop trying to push me away, Art."_

Alfred opened his eyes, and for a split-second, a smile was on his worn face as well. Oh, how rare that moment was—how relieving—that things could still be _normal_—as strange as normal was for them—while faced with famine, illness, and danger. How refreshing that they could still retain their relationship, that they could still be friends, that they could still be brothers, father-and-son, Alfred and Arthur, _family._

But then, the living representative of the States shook his head, and the moment was lost. Broken. The fragments were scattered, falling to the ground in slivers and shards, glimmering like stolen sunlight at their feet.

Alfred swallowed, the hollowed look to his eyes returning. "You still should go." It came as a whisper.

Frowning heavily, Arthur felt anger crawling up his back. After all that—after that unique moment of happiness—after feeling, for once, that things weren't crumbling around them, decaying like a corpse—he still goes and insists on adhering to the Other's silent wishes. The United Kingdom would have none of this. "I've already told you, I'm not leaving. Not right now—"

America seemed so despaired. "—Artie, you have to—"

"—_no_." Before he quite knew what he was doing, he felt his hands reaching forward, taking hold of the sides of the taller man's head, fingers digging into the messy gold hair for a tighter grip, just to make the younger understand. "Alfred, if you don't stop trying to—"

—he never got to finish.

There was a sudden strange sensation that shook Great Britain's body—from his very core, it seemed, spreading outward like a rippling tide to the tips of his toes and fingers. A burst of magic, flaring out, before he could rein it in—and then there was a pulling in his back. All of a sudden, the island nation knew what was happening.

Especially since two white monstrous wings just burst from his back.

The world tilted and heaved and became no more.

* * *

><p><em>I've lain awake thinking of you, I'll warrant,<br>More than you have yourself, some of these nights…_

* * *

><p>"A-Artie?"<p>

The United Kingdom spun on his imaginary heels (he supposed he should call them that since he wasn't quite in the real world at the moment) to see the United States—the _United_ States—looking at him with an astonished expression, mouth open and blue eyes wide.

He supposed he could find it in himself to smirk a little in return. That was, of course, despite the fact he was feeling a bit odd as well what with being inside someone else's mind.

"Hullo, Alfred." Putting on the feint of only being mildly interested, he observed the empty atmosphere, also keeping an eye out for his son's doppelganger. He couldn't help but feel very much on the alert when not seeing the enemy in the present area. "Strange. I guess I always assumed your mind wouldn't be just a blank slate, considering you must have something akin to ADD."

"H-hey!" spluttered his dear, dear younger brother.

The United Kingdom felt, rather than heard or anything else, the presence of the Other behind him then. Turning around to meet him, he tried to shake off the eerie feeling that instantly settled in his chest at the realization that indeed, there was hardly a difference between the appearance of the Confederate compared to his Union counterpart. The two truly were twins, more so than Alfred and Matthew.

But the one thing that separated the United States from his Other was the eyes. That pair of blue eyes he was gazing into at that moment were dangerous and deceiving. Although at that time, granted, they appeared to be nothing but curious and friendly, there was something else behind them as well.

Something that Great Britain did not trust.

"So," the Other said slowly, amusement making his features seem sharper. "This is a certainly a curious thing. How did you wind up in here, Arthur?"

The Briton could feel, as well, the fact that the Alfred behind him had taken a step forward, just in case he suddenly need to jump to the smaller man's rescue. But he tried to assure the younger one with a relaxed stance that there was no need. He wouldn't be attacked by the Other; not this time around. Of that, he was quite sure.

At least…he hoped he was sure.

But he held his chin square as he responded carefully, "Actually, I have an idea as to why. Would you care to know?"

A grin spread on the Confederate's face, and the Union once more took another step forward, now right behind his former father figure. He could hear the young man breathe in warning, "Britain…" Using his country's name, too; something formal and unusual especially for the laidback nation.

But it served its purpose, saying more than what other words could the fact that he was concerned.

Arthur gave one glance back to assure the uncertain blue eyes with his mostly-confident green that he would be fine, before turning back to the Other and responding, "It was an accident, really. But somehow, my magic was tapped into and thus, my Britannia Angel form at least partially came out. Although that's easy to explain—magic without spells I cannot use unless in that form, and I most definitely and involuntarily used magic without spells to accidentally enter your mind. Although how I even used it without meaning to…"

There was a careful pause in which he narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the Confederate more closely. "…I have long outgrown the phase in which I couldn't control it."

The Other feigned hurt and shock, although didn't truly seem either. "What, you think _I _am somehow to blame for _your_ mistake?"

"Yes."

That was the last thing the United Kingdom could remember saying before a long, tense silence blanketed the quiet, almost too-still atmosphere. Something was going to break, and Arthur knew it—and Alfred knew it—and the Other Alfred _wanted _it, so it seemed.

Then Great Britain could remember feeling America's hands on his back, shoving him, shouting, "_Out! Now!" _before whatever it was that was waiting to break…finally did.

* * *

><p>…<em>bless you, of course, you're keeping me from work,<br>But the thing of it is, I need to _be _kept.  
>There's work enough to do—there's always that;<br>But behind's behind. The worst that you can do  
>Is set me back a little more behind.<br>I sha'n't catch up in this world, anyway.  
>I'd <em>rather _you'd not go unless you must._

_- A Servant to Servants _by Robert Frost


	6. Take Over

**Crystal's Notes: **Omigush whut? I'm alive? Ahem, yes! 8D I is! Struggling, however, to find time to write (and nonetheless, motivation), when I am involved in school, the play, and have got myself into that hermit-habit called "reading." Oh gosh…I love reading. 3 Ahem. ANYWAY! I put myself to work and cranked out this chapter. 8D Here's to hoping other chapters to this and the other fanfics of mine will follow promptly!

And thank you, reviewers. Every single one of you. Because—this chapter would not exist without you. I'm serious. I owe you more than you realize. Too bad I can give you nothing more than my classic cyber-cookies…I hope you enjoy them tho. 8D

**AnarchySoul's Notes: **Guise, I lied. This chapter is by far my favorite so far now. I love Krissey because she made this so freaking epic and it's just awesome. Listen to something creepy while reading this, it's fantastic to read with background music!

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><p>"<em>We are more often frightened than hurt; and we suffer more from imagination than from reality."<em>

Lucius Annaeus Seneca

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><p>If there was one thing Canada was most certainly not expecting, it was to wake up finding a certain tall, muscular nation that he hardly talked to hovering over him, pale white scarf tickling his nose. The sight of the instantly-recognizable purple eyes above him gave the poor country quite a start—and quite a bit of pain for he had tried to sit up the moment he saw the Russian, only to feel the misery of his injuries shooting across his limbs.<p>

Arthur, then, burst in not a moment later, as if on cue, breathless and anxious. Matthew's eyes darted to him in relief—ah, so he was saved from having to make idle conversation with the ex-Communist—but all easiness deserted him when he noticed just how pale his former father figure was.

Something had shaken him.

"It is good the little one is awake, da~?" Ivan Braginski broke Matthew's thoughts as he turned with that ever-present stretched smile, watching while Arthur hurried forward and helped the Canadian feel more comfortable in his bed, checking his bandages, and passing his hands along his son's face.

Once he was sure the boy was fine, only a bit sore (painkillers were a mercy sent from heaven), Arthur leaned backed and finally nodded, sighing far more heavily than Matthew thought necessary for the situation. "Yes." But there was only a second full of pause before he leaned forward and asked (yet again, ever worried), "Are you sure you're okay, Matthew?"

This made the Canadian quietly laugh even while wanting to frown instead, despite the pain it caused his bruised ribs. While rubbing them gingerly, he muttered, "Yeah. Honestly, I feel fine." _What about you?_

"Alfred is the one who did this…?" It was a question, yet it also seemed like a statement. Not quite sure how to respond to the much taller, much stronger nation, Arthur inhaled and gave a great pause—the inner-debate on whether or not to confirm the Russian's suspicions quickly resolving itself—and then finally nodded, straightening. He crossed his arms over his chest, the sense of business and duty when regarding his former colony coming back to him. Color regained his cheeks.

This new piece of information seemed to intrigue Ivan. His deep indigo eyes shifted with an unnamable emotion as he also shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Interesting…"

Unnerved and wishing for a split second that his magic would allow him to know what Ivan was thinking, the United Kingdom turned to Matthew, deciding to blurt the question that had been burning within him for a while. "Matthew...whatever possessed you to go to Alfred _alone_?"

That got a defensive look from the younger set of eyes. "_You_ went alone. I didn't think anything of it. I didn't..." Hadn't thought of his personal safety; had only been concerned with his twin's, because... "...Alfred asked for me," the Canadian added quietly, hand still upon his sore ribs. He took a breath, winced, and mumbled, "I didn't think it would be the Confederate."

"It was a trap." The United Kingdom felt the bitter words come out of his mouth, and in turn felt an unsettling feeling churn his stomach. The Confederate was getting wiser, trickier, and craftier—using their ally to do so, too.

Because he knew, in a way, they were defenseless against him.

Canada winced again, and this time, not from his wounds. He bowed his chin to his chest, resigned. "Sorry. I should've...thought. A little."

There was a great pause that blanketed the silence between them, thick and heavy.

But finally, after what seemed like forever, the Canadian felt a hand upon his brow, familiar fingers brushing his hair away from his face. "Be more careful," came the whisper, and Matthew, closing his eyes, felt himself nodding.

* * *

><p>"<em>Only Americans can hurt America."<em>

Dwight D. Eisenhower

* * *

><p>"You feel awkward."<p>

That might have been an understatement, Arthur reflected bitterly as he sat across from the much taller Russian, menus on the table before them. Shaking himself out of his negative mindset regarding the situation, he huffed and replied, "A little." But it was as he had said earlier, since Ivan was there in the U.S.—for whatever reason that he still didn't know—Arthur figured the man might as well be useful and lend them a hand.

Plus, he was hungry. So why not explain all the current events over dinner?

Well, it _had _been a good thought. Key words: _had _been.

But after having sat down and feeling curious eyes upon him and the other male, he realized his mistake.

_Whatever, _he finally thought, sighing. _Let them think what they want. _So picking up his menu, glancing at the items, and hereby ignoring all the eyes watching him like buzzing gnats, he started up idle conversation. "So what are you doing here, Ivan?"

"Eating dinner with you, da?"

Um. "No, I mean, in the States. Out of all the people I thought I'd see here, you were…the last person I'd expect."

Ivan tilted his chin up to the ceiling, humming curiously. "Yes…it _is _'odd.' Isn't it?" Then he smiled, for all the world to see, a delightfully happy pale-haired Russian, practically a child in an adult body. "But the America's are not faring well. I thought I would check up on them."

"That's…nice of you."

The waitress came by then. Bless her, she didn't make any assumptions about the situation, unlike the other guests there at the restaurant; she took their orders and menus, and then walked off, leaving the two nations across from each other in another awkward pause. It took a longer time before one of the two spoke, and the lack of conversation only seemed to bother the shorter of them, who glanced out of the window they sat beside and watched the sky darken as time passed by.

Finally, Ivan broke it. "I change my earlier observation. You are bothered more than awkward."

Arthur straightened slightly, his eyes still on the sun's last vestiges, fingers of sunlight reaching in desperation for lingering opportunity. "Your powers of observation must be very astute."

"I was under the impression from the beginning you would tell me something. Now from how quiet you are, I wonder if I will learn anything at all." For how innocent and indifferent the Russian's tone was, there was underneath it a concern and disappointment that finally stirred the other into shifting and looking at him. And after meeting the violet eyes, Arthur reluctantly sighed.

With a slow nod, he muttered, "It'd be best if you knew everything; since you're here…and maybe, somehow, you can help."

Although that was an intimidating thought in itself—Russia? Helping—helping, above all, the _United States_? But swallowing his uncertainty and the nagging, rebellious voice that violently protested the ex-Communist's aid at all, the United Kingdom informed his paler, blonder companion of everything that had happened up until that point—his first visit to the Confederate, Matthew's visit, and his latest visit, which resulted in a strange encounter inside Alfred's own mind.

When he was done, silence resumed. Food had been consumed, and only crumbs remained on the plates before them. Picking at a few, Ivan idly spoke up. "I notice…you also have come to some conclusions concerning young Alfred—young Alfred and the Confederate."

Arthur shouldn't have been surprised at Ivan's incredible tact of reading people. Despite being a man of sunflowers and scarves, he was also very sharp—that is, when he wasn't on vodka. He nodded, exhaling, lowering his eyes. "Yes. I…you could say I've been thinking about them from the beginning, hearing the reports, and realized them—had a theory finalized—when I was in Alfred's mind, so to speak."

"I would like to hear about them," Ivan responded, still smiling. He took a casual sip of the drink he had ordered—not vodka, unfortunately, for the restaurant didn't sell it.

Arthur rubbed his face tiredly. "Well…" Where to begin? "…at first, I thought the entire situation strange. I mean, how did Alfred manage to grow _claws_? We're not humans, but that doesn't mean we break all laws of human physiques—we can't grow appendages like that. Not without magic."

"But young Alfred cannot use magic," Ivan helpfully and cheerfully added.

A nod. "Alfred can't use magic. When I visited him and met the Confederate, I didn't sense any, either. So then that left me to wonder, 'how?' It wasn't until my latest meeting with him, however, that I finally figured it out. Or at least…I think I did." The pale, thin hands on the angled face slid downward to reveal bothered, worried green eyes. "But oh…I hope I'm wrong."

Ivan, idly swirling around the ice in his glass by rotating his wrist, grinned and waved his other hand distractedly. "It cannot be as serious as you think. Alfred is a puppy."

"But Alfred has quite the imagination." Arthur finally withdrew his hands from his face and folded them onto the table, staring directly into the dazed, curious amethyst eyes before him. "And one shouldn't take lightly the imaginings of a child who still has reason to be afraid of his own shadow."

A spark of intrigue ignited the purple eyes. Ivan leaned back the slightest. "Ah…you mean the Confederate."

"Alfred's making him up, Ivan. The Confederate? A figment of Alfred's fear that's had life breathed into it—by his own subconscious. Alfred's been afraid, because of the drought, that his people are dividing themselves in two again. But that's not the case—I know that, because right after I got out of the asylum today, I _checked _the American politics. They may have a stupid president right now, but they haven't stopped being united. So it isn't the people—it's him—"

"—and that's what makes it worse." Instead of being disturbed by it, Ivan actually seemed impressed and delighted. He once again gazed towards the ceiling, smiling proudly. "Alfred's fear has grown to the point his abilities as a nation are being paradoxed by the lack of change in his people."

Arthur nodded, his heart beating as wildly in his chest as it did when this news first made itself known to him. "And it's that paradox that gives his imagination, spurred by fear, the ability to slowly alter the reality closest to him. He's…" He grabbed his head and grasped at the hairs on the back of his head. "This fear is getting out of control. And if we don't tell him about this and make him realize what's going on…the Confederate could really come back—and Alfred, then, might have just tricked himself into his own _murder_."

There it was. The truth of the situation. What Arthur had been fearing, now finally out in the open.

And silence was the only welcome it received.

Then, the quiet hum of a vibrating cell phone followed it—as if on cue. Both parties jumped, although Ivan laughed quietly and childlike as Arthur fumbled in his pocket for the device. Cursing as it still slipped around in his shaky grip—he had noticed from the front screen that it was the number of the asylum—he answered the instant he had it open and pressed to his ear. "Hello?"

"A-Arthur? Is this Arthur…Arthur Kirkland?" It was a breathless, frightened voice that responded.

The United Kingdom frowned. Despite the reckless anxiety that had plagued him earlier, he now found himself dreading what this man had to tell him. His blood began to move like molasses through his veins. "Yes…" he said slowly. "This is he."

"A-ah, I—we—I'm afraid—"

"…you're afraid…?"

"—I—please—I don't—No! _No! Don't come near me!_"

Silence. Sudden, heavy and thick. The blood picked up its pace, replaced by adrenaline. "Hello…?" he called out experimentally. Arthur glanced at Ivan quickly, flicking his green eyes over to the busy Russian, who was occupied mindlessly with trying to nudge the last of the ice still clinging to the bottom of the glass into his open mouth. Green eyes rolled. _Well, at least _someone _can still be carefree…_

"Is someone there?" he asked with diminishing patience. Now, annoyance began to crawl upon him. What, was this a prank?

But the voice that came on next made his blood freeze.

"The game's changed, Arthur. This asylum's mine."

_Click._

The phone clattered to the table.


	7. Breaking Point

**Crystal's Notes: **So I reread all that I wrote for this story. And to be honest, I was mad with myself. For making the "Confederate" the bad-guy. (Because honestly, that was a bit biased on my part and completely unfair.) But then I read the last chapter and amended for myself that this version of the "Confederate" is _not really what I think the real Confederate, during the time of the Civil War, would have been like._

I want that to be clear.

This version of the "Confederate" is, as Arthur said, completely made-up by Alfred's own fears. He's just his nightmare other than acting like it's someone who's been around before.

I imagine the real Confederate wasn't so nearly as mean; again, I want that to be clear. I don't say that because I somehow agree with slavery (I don't)—but rather, I say that, because I don't agree with stereotyping the Confederacy as "evil," "demonic," and "twisted," which is what I realize may have come across in previous chapters.

Okay. 8D Now that that's done. One final note:

The last couple "quote" stanzas are from the same song—but that song will carry over into the next chapter. I don't know if anyone pays them any attention, but if you were curious, the song title and artist will be named next chapter, after the final bits from it have been used for breakers/fillers/whatever purpose…they're serving. 8D

Thanks! And enjoy!

**AnarchySoul's Notes: **Praise the worthy Krissey. Praise her. Happy she's back 8D? I am too (heart heart)

* * *

><p>"'<em>Tis now the witching time of night,<br>When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out  
>Contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot<br>blood  
>And do such bitter business as the day<br>Would quake to look on."_

- Hamlet, _Hamlet_ by William Shakespeare

* * *

><p>Arthur decided that dark, flickering lights in—of all places—an <em>asylum<em>—were really one of the highest markers on his list of "Top Ten Freaky Things." And honestly, if he didn't have a son in there—a brother—whatever—inside, along with several, probably dead doctors—then he wouldn't even be found within a foot of the place.

But as it was, he needed to be here.

Russia grabbed his arm as they reached the first dank intersection, which scared the United Kingdom more than he'd let on—_How the heck am I sane, taking with me—of all people—_Ivan _along to the asylum—_but he listened closely, either way, as the tall man muttered, "We should probably split up, da?"

"Yes," was Arthur's instinctive response, merely to agree with whatever the bigger country was saying—but then he really thought about the words and the implication of what they meant, and quickly recovered himself. "I mean no—_no, _let's _definitely not _split up. That is a _bad_ idea. Very bad idea. Aren't we more powerful in numbers—?"

"Arthur."

The island nation realized, perhaps by the tone, perhaps by the shift of Ivan's hand from his arm to his shoulder, that he was shaking at that moment. Trembling.

_What? Why? I—I can't be scared—I'm the _United Kingdom. _What have I to be afraid of—_

"I believe little America is as scared as you are."

Self-realization became startlingly clear, a beacon in Arthur's head, making him tense up even more and shake his head. Suddenly, he was very aware of the reason he was quavering. "No," he disagreed. "Well—perhaps _Alfred _is. But not the Confederate. He knows…he knows I can't hurt him." _Can't, because I won't. Because you're still the face of the boy I care for so much. _"But he…well, you know what he can do even to someone he cares about. You've seen it."

Russia didn't frown—perhaps that wasn't possible for the enormous man—but the smile did dip a fraction in acknowledgement, before picking itself back up. Plus, it looked ten times creepier than normal in the faulty lighting, which hardly served to comfort the United Kingdom any. "I doubt the same will be of you, Arthur. Little America treasures you. He will protect before hurt you."

The sandy-blonde sighed. "Let's…let's just hope so."

Ivan's hand on his shoulder patted once, before leaving as the giant country turned around. "I will be heading this way, then. Now that that is taken care of. You take the other—da?"

"Da—I mean. Yes." Arthur shook his head, clearing his thoughts as he, too, turned away from the other and faced the darkened hallway in front of him. He swallowed.

This one had hardly any working lights.

_Onward to the belly of the beast, I suppose._

* * *

><p><em>The father of lies<br>Coming to steal  
>Kill and destroy<br>All my hopes of being good enough  
>I hear him saying cursed are the ones who can't abide<br>He's right_

* * *

><p><em>Breathe.<em>

Soft inhale. Soft exhale.

_Breathe._

Soft inhale. Soft exhale.

_Breathe. Keep breathing. Keep calm, dumb heart. Keep calm._

It was hardly anything but. Arthur wanted to keep his hands in his coat pockets—and yet didn't. For a few minutes, he fumbled with the idea, hands darting to his sides before darting back to the calm interior, before pulling them back out because he didn't want to be caught without time to defend himself.

He swallowed numbly—and to his greatest surprise, when he finally _heard_ something, he wasn't as scared as he thought he'd be. Instead, a cold, heavy courage clasped itself over his heart, locking and clicking into place like a safe on his fear.

For this, the United Kingdom was rather grateful.

The sandy-haired island nation drew to a stop, feet suddenly feeling like stiff rods instead of flesh and bones. It was a bit difficult to move them. He swallowed a second time. "…Alfred?"

His voice echoed down the dark, still hallway.

"…Alfred, is that you?"

Because something was most _definitely_ there. At least, he thought so. That thrumming, flowing sensation deep in the marrow of his bones told him that it was Another—a country, too—a nation that was human and yet wasn't, threaded into being by the wills and ordainment of many.

On a lighter note, he wasn't quite sure whether he wanted it to be Russia who was hiding or America.

Either, at this moment, would be terrifying.

_Oh, what was I thinking, getting myself into this mess? _Sighing, the United Kingdom shook his head, clearing his thoughts. His senses were playing on him—heightened by this idiotic sense of fear he had in him. He blamed it on his unlikely companion. _Shouldn't have brought Ivan along. Now I have _two _monsters to be wary of—_

—but then—

—_Danger_—

—and Arthur barely had time to react. Just as his back stiffened, stance readying itself for a fight, a hand clasped over his mouth, strong and curved—and another placed itself on his back—and then with a shudder, the United Kingdom felt that same draining, tugging feeling as before, like strong, potent molasses was being slid along his insides as white burst from his back, feathery and large.

_So there you are, _a calm voice in his head said—sounding quite unlike himself, to be honest, but yet he was glad for his apparently-braver-than-consciousness-subconscious.

Another voice, suddenly loud and fearful, cried out. _ARTHUR, RUN—!_

But the United Kingdom shut out the voice of his long-time comrade, fighting to stay in the present, in the real world, and _not in the mind, _as he struggled against the grasp of his captor, teeth nipping for a good bite on that hand, wings flapping.

"It's all in vain, you know."

That voice he knew, whispered in his ear as the hand on his back removed itself temporarily. When it returned, all Arthur felt, instead, was metal.

"It's handy what you can find around at a hospital. Don't you think, Arthur?"

_Metal? Metal? What's he holding?_

_ARTHUR, PLEASE—_

There was such desperation in that voice. Such _fear_. Why? What was the Confederate planning? Arthur grit his teeth, tugging, tugging—and _dang it, why_ was America so strong?

The metal moved along his back, sending shivers up and down Arthur's spine, crawling along his skin.

"You know what they do to birds when they don't want them to fly away, Arthur?"

Dread.

Heavy. Laden. Sinking to the bottom of his stomach like iron.

_He isn't—he wouldn't—_

The struggling intensified, frightened—and suddenly, he knew—knew why Alfred—the _real _Alfred—was so scared, so terrified—and he wanted to scream—scream so loudly—cry out—_ALFRED HE'S NOT REAL HE'S YOUR IMAGINATION YOU CAN STOP THIS—_and oh, where the heck was Ivan? Right when he needed him? At this one, rare, inconceivable moment in time—

"Now, now, Arthur. You're not going to get away from me this time. I'll make sure you stay with me always."

The metal—_scissors, _Arthur realized a split-second before their bite—cut into flesh, bone and feathers.

And before he could stop himself, Arthur began to scream.

* * *

><p><em>Alleluia, he's right!<em>

* * *

><p>Alfred wished he could cover his ears.<p>

Flesh—it—it shouldn't _make _that noise. That squishing, squelching sound—and all that blood—and the _bones—_the crunch, and the tear—

And Arthur was still screaming.

That was the worst.

Muffled by his hand in the real world—yet so vibrant, echoing, loud and painful and raw and vivid, thrumming, horrible in the world of the America's mind.

He was shaking.

But that didn't really matter, did it?

_Red—there's so much red—_

It shouldn't have been there, some part of his mind still stammered. Not here—not in his mind. Not covering his hands, soaking through skin as if _he _was the one holding the scissors and snipping through Arthur's _wings_—right here, in the present—by his own hands—fingers, pulling on the handles to _crunch, squelch, snip, scream_—

_No…_

The red grew, dripping, pouring, rushing all over his hands—his arms—his shirt—his pants—filling up the entire space of his mind—_GUILTY GUILTY YOU TORTURER, TWISTED, MURDERER—_the words, painted in blood, all over his consciousness—

_NO._

Shaking red hands gripped the sides of his head, and Alfred couldn't breathe. _RED, RED, ARTHUR'S RED—ARTHUR'S RED I SPILLED—I DID THIS—I DID—_

_**NO!**_

When the final tendon was snapped and the first wing finally fell—huge—white—_it was supposed to have been beautiful; not painted and marred, seeped through with red—_and splattered to the ground—limp—_a complete limb, severed and just _lying there—

—Alfred, too, began to scream. Long and horrified because—

I.

DID.

THIS.

* * *

><p><em>The devil is preaching<br>The song of the redeemed:  
>That I am cursed and gone astray<br>I cannot gain salvation  
>Embracing accusation…<em>


	8. Start the End

**Crystal's Notes: **Haha. It's kinda weird, writing up here when lately, in all of my more recent works, I've stuck my notes at the bottom…I like the bottom better. ;A; The ceiling's awkward. But y'know what else is awkward? Realizing that I started this thing like two years ago, and I'm a horrible updater because of my inconsistency.

So perhaps those of you who are still reading this would be delighted to know that it only has one more chapter to go before it reaches its conclusion. 8DDD

Thanks for sticking through! I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**AnarchySoul's Notes: **Finally, I can't believe this is finally almost over. Having Crystal write this was the best decision in the world. She made it so beautiful and everything is totally perfect. I hope everyone enjoyed it as much as I did though that'll be pretty hard C; Stalk her. Love her. She gets your love. (heart)

* * *

><p><em>Could the father of lies<br>Be telling the truth  
>Of God to me tonight?<em>

* * *

><p>He was a broken boy.<p>

Ivan was aware of this, and unsure how to proceed. Unsure, because some deep, buried part of him recognized the tremor lining Alfred's bones, dancing along his skin but so marrow-ingrained that it was somehow, twistedly, a coping mechanism. (Because there's a fear, he knows so well, that if the young man didn't shake, he wouldn't feel guilty—and to lose that level of conscience is to lose all hope of moral salvation.) Ivan knew this, and that's why he stood there.

Even after the paramedics took Arthur, and after he warded off the policemen, FBI, CIA and detectives, begging to be let inside to take their country and imprison him properly, he stood there, and watched.

And Alfred cried.

* * *

><p><em>If the penalty of sin is death<br>Then death is mine_

* * *

><p>Alfred didn't know what to do. He cried and cried because everything was gone. Who he had been—who he was—all sense of reality and right and wrong—because he had crossed every line and henceforth horridly crucified all he held dear.<p>

He was not the victim.

He should not be there.

He was not to be pitied.

He was not to be loved.

And vaguely, Alfred wondered when the Confederate fell silent—or rather, when their thoughts finally melded together into one.

(Or have they ever been two separate entities? Maybe they've been the same. All along, the entire time.)

* * *

><p><em>I hear him saying cursed are the ones<br>Who can't abide_

* * *

><p>"You know what you have to do."<p>

It was a statement. Not a question.

All the same, Alfred felt a chill settle and harden behind his sternum, and for the first time in who-knew-how long while huddled in that ancient darkness, he lifted his eyes to the Russian standing in front of him. (Subconsciously, he was aware that he had been standing there for an awfully long time, but he was not quite sure what to think of that, because although they had been "friends," they hadn't been "I'll stay here until you're done crying" _friends_.)

He swallowed, and it hurt, but he bore it because he deserved it. "…no. I don't." Because he honestly didn't.

Ivan didn't seem disappointed. Maybe he expected it. "Alfred."

America flinched, and he didn't know why. There was suddenly a hate for that name—the name that once represented the land of the free and home of the brave—everything that he had been that was once at least a semblance of _good_—that he no longer could bear. He hissed, "Don't call me that."

And Ivan responded "Petty," which Alfred couldn't understand.

* * *

><p><em>He's right<br>Alleluia he's right!_

* * *

><p>He was on his feet before he knew it, shouting his aching throat hoarse because he was not done with the guilt and he needed to <em>die die die <em>for what he had _done_— "—it's _not _petty! I could have _killed _him, Ivan! I hurt him! I cut off his wings—I actually _cut_—" –and _oh gosh _that blood was still there and he could see the thick, soupy crimson and hear the slice and slop of flesh and bone, and he wanted to throw up.

His chest heaved, but there was nothing left to give. He hadn't eaten in forever.

* * *

><p><em>Oh the devil's singing over me<br>An age-old song  
>That I am cursed and gone astray<em>

* * *

><p>Ivan stood as still as he had before, unmoved. But his voice was quiet—the quietest Alfred had ever heard it—as he muttered, "…do not pretend I don't know your pain or that it is greater than the horrors I have caused."<p>

Alfred's eyes snapped up.

"I…Ivan, I spilled his _blood…_"

"And is that different than your revolution?"

Alfred gritted his teeth. "Yes. Don't you _dare _try and put these two situations under the same light. He didn't deserve this. This…_I did this_ under _my own intent_—"

"—what about the Confederate—?"

"—_I don't know_!" Alfred shook, trying to hold himself together, but everything was falling apart, so why not? Why not just let go? _Because then maybe I can't bring it all back. _"I can't tell anymore! I can't tell what's me or what's him!"

"That is because there has never been a difference."

The United States of America choked.

* * *

><p><em>Singing the first verse so conveniently<br>Over me_

* * *

><p>"You are afraid of nothing, and that is why he exists." With every word, Ivan's voice, as childish as it was, escalated in intensity—intensity that Alfred wasn't sure how to react to. "Your people aren't broken, you aren't split, and yet you created this dichotomy because you feared there would be one. For a long time, you have feared one—ever since the first. But the reality remains to be the fact that <em>there is nothing<em>."

Alfred couldn't breathe, and thought that maybe he was dying. But it was the cold of the wall behind him, when he finally leaned against it, that grounded him and reminded him he was still living. (Although he shouldn't be; he really shouldn't.) "So…so you're telling me that I…_I…me…I _did all this…?"

"_I'm telling you_ that you can stop it."

And something in Ivan's tone made it suddenly, soul-blindingly clear.

Alfred met his eye, and understood the statement with such clarity that instinct made him want to question. He knew, however, the fact would undoubtedly be discovered true before long. The message was clear, cold, and succinct: _Stop regretting. Start the end of this._

And Alfred shook his head. "I…but Ivan, look at what I've _done…_"

Ivan smiled, and perhaps it should have been creepy, but something about it wasn't. "You are forgiven. What is it…_family _tends to do that, da?"

It was hard to swallow, and Alfred was sharply aware he didn't deserve it. So he shook his head, covering his scraggly, bloody locks with his bloodier (murderous) hands and leaning against the wall as he slumped to the floor. "It's too simple…I can't…I don't know if I can…" His mouth tightened into a grimace. "…Ivan, you're telling me _I hurt them. _I hurt them _myself_; I can't even blame the Confederate, because he was _me _and I…" Alfred pressed his lips together, shaking. He suddenly felt very small and very dark.

His voice came out barely as a whisper.

"…I'm scared."

Ivan's voice was surprisingly loud afterwards. "Why?"

Alfred swallowed. "Because maybe I've wanted to do these bad things all along, but I've just been repressing it...maybe…maybe I'm really just…so ugly and twisted…and all this time I've only just been pretending…"

The hands drifted down to his mouth as he muffled a half-laugh. "It wouldn't be hard for some people to imagine…The United States of America—do you know how many people already hate me…? Who already realize—"

"—stop."

Too late, Alfred realized Ivan suddenly wasn't smiling. There was something in his eyes that Alfred recognized and yet didn't. And he couldn't tell yet if it scared him or comforted him.

"You will not become what I am. This will stop here, America. Da?"

It dawned on him through the haze of his guilt what that meant.

Of course Russia knew. Of course Russia was still there, standing and strong and unmoved by the words and utterances of this other who had made horrible mistakes, too.

Because Alfred was a broken boy.

And Ivan_ is_ a broken man.

And that was all the difference.

(And that was how it would remain.)

* * *

><p><em>He's forgotten the refrain…<em>

_- Embracing Accusations _by Shane & Shane


	9. Rest Your Fears Here

**Crystal's Notes: **It's done! ;A; Omgsh…finally…this project that took way-far-too-inexcusably-long is finally _over. _Perhaps not in the exact way I first envisioned when SoulAnarchy and I began, but…in a somewhat satisfactory way, I believe.

Do enjoy the final chapter, folks. I hope you've enjoyed the ride! I'm sad to see it go, but I'm also very relieved. It's a bit shorter than the others, but I figure that's okay, now that everything's finally been said and done. Again, enjoy!

PS: The thing at the end involves my own headcanon. I don't know if there is historic accuracy behind it or not, but I'm just very much a fan of the idea that those two have a very tender, deep familial relationship behind closed bars. Take it as you will.

* * *

><p>"<em>The destiny of Man is to unite, not to divide. If you keep on dividing you end up as a collection of monkeys throwing nuts at each other out of separate trees."<em>

- Merlyn, _The Once and Future King_ by T.H. White

* * *

><p>The air-lift was a success.<p>

When Arthur woke up, that was the first thing Matthew, who had been waiting patiently at his bedside, healed and perfect as before, told him. Of course, that made the first thing the United Kingdom ask upon awareness be, "How long was I out?" Because last thing he remembered was purely _planning _the act with Germany, and Matthew the one in a hospital bed, but…

…well, apparently it had been a week since then.

There was a strange look in the Canadian's eye as he informed him of that fact.

And it practically begged the next question.

"…Alfred…?"

* * *

><p>"<em>Home is the place where, when you have to go there,<br>They have to take you in."_

* * *

><p>The footsteps were too slow, too well-paced—and the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland just wished they would get to his room faster.<p>

Then they stopped in front of his door.

(_Of course. The prat. Making me wait like always.)_

And when Alfred, his beloved boy—his brother—his son—whatever—_everything_—stepped in through the door, looking far healthier than he remembered—_the eyes are clear, those beautiful blue eyes are finally clear—_he slowly smiled.

Alfred looked terrified.

"Come here, you daft git."

Affection laced every word.

Something in his father-brother's tone softened the young man, making his shoulders relax slightly as he edged further into the room. The door clicked shut behind him, and then hesitance silence followed.

Arthur resisted the amused smirk that quirked the corner of his mouth. "I mean to my bedside, idiot."

Alfred looked about to shake his head—and the United Kingdom swore that if he did, for sure he would punch the boy a good one—before without even a word of reprimand, the younger settled himself, straightened his jaw, and headed forward, nearing the older country's side. And as soon as he did, Arthur grabbed his wrist, making him jump.

"How do you feel?" he asked, amusement slipping away as he carefully searched his young one's eyes and face.

The healing United States of America stifled a smile that still broke through softly. "I could ask you the same question…"

Arthur smirked, loosening his grip enough to pull away his hand and pat half-affectionately, half-dismissively at the younger's forearm. "Sentiment appreciated, but not needed. I hope you haven't been tearing yourself silly over it—they'll regrow, you know."

This seemed to surprise the American. "They will?"

"Yes." The amusement returned, lighting up the island nation's green eyes as his smirk grew in strength. "What, you didn't think a magical limb would be able to regenerate itself? They're just a manifestation of my magic, Alfred. Sure, I'll be sore—and it will take an awfully long while—not easy—but they'll be back. No permanent damage done."

And something in Alfred's face broke.

Tilting his face downward, hiding it away from view—Arthur couldn't tell what had happened. Unaware what had changed, he was about to ask until he suddenly felt two wet drops hit his hand that was still resting gently on the young man's forearm.

It made Arthur press his lips together and tentatively rub the younger man's arm with his thumb, back and forth, back and forth, in soothing strokes. "…Alfred…?"

"Sorry." It was so quite, so broken, that the United Kingdom immediately stilled, holding his breath just to be able to hear the boy's voice. "I'm so sorry—I just—I was so worried…I thought I'd crippled you…and…if I had, I couldn't—I—"

He didn't get another word out.

Cut off, Alfred jerked in surprise as he felt his father figure grip his arm with surprising strength for one still hospitalized, and pull him down, down until he was bent over, and felt his face pressed into the familiar fold of Arthur's skin between his neck and jaw.

And Alfred felt his breath hitch in surprise.

He knew this place, this particular corner of the smaller man, because—as a child—as a tiny, trembling colony, still so scared of the dark and nightmares and fears and doubts—this, this hold, this always, always meant for as long as he could remember,_ "Rest your fears here for them to stay. Rise again when the monsters are chased away."_

The tears came quietly, now, in a silent, swift current with mouth gritted and tight throat sore with the pressure.

And Arthur merely bore it all, whispering quietly for his ears only, "This is why I never doubted you."

Alfred reached up, grasping with both hands—perhaps childishly so—at the thin hospital nightgown the United Kingdom wore, whispering back with deepest reverence, open vulnerability, and every ounce of utmost sincerity, "…thank you."

The older nation's hand drifted up, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the nape of his neck.

* * *

><p>"<em>I should have called it<br>Something you somehow haven't to deserve."_

_- The Death of a Hired Man _by Robert Frost

* * *

><p>Russia stepped off the plane, smiling genuinely at the sister waiting for him there.<p>

"All is well?"

He only handed her a sunflower, the smile never drifting. Ukraine understood the familial sentiment, sniffing the gift smuggled from the United States' borders with the reverence of tradition. "I missed you," she muttered.

Russia kissed the forehead of one of the few things to have pieced him together over the years, and muttered quietly, "I missed you."

Which really, meant, _I have been reminded why I need you._

* * *

><p>FIN<p> 


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